business cards

I get handed a plethora of business cards each day. Before starting in my current role, I hadn’t really thought about business cards, what they mean and what they symbolize, but now I know that they have a whole world of their own. They communicate something about who their owners are, but perhaps more importantly, carry a sociological significance with all the underlying hints about the owner’s socioeconomic status and values that are cherished by him or her. It’s not just the card itself, with the material it’s made out of, the size, shape, font, colors, weight and thickness, but also the way that it’s carried and presented, that speak worlds about its owner.

It’s an accessory that we don’t think about as being one. Just like what your watch or wallet or socks say about you (or the lack thereof of any of those), your business card says just as much, if not more.

In my experience, there are four types of people in the world, or rather, in New York, as New York is not a very representative sample for making generalizations for the rest of the world.

The first type is characterized by the typical Midtown guy in a charcoal suit, white shirt and striped navy and charcoal tie with black leather shoes and a black leather briefcase. The business card for this type is a traditional thin white cardboard material with a logo of the bank or consulting firm, and then the owner’s name, title, and basic contact information. The color scheme is nothing that stands out; grey tones or dark shades of colors like blue, green and red to communicate scholarliness, business-savvy, and professionalism. Usually, these types of business cards are handed in a very “Fordist” fashion; as just another step in the process that one needs to follow, after having met someone else in a professional setting. The card does not say much about its owner (it’s not even clear who the owner is; the person handing it out or the company for which that person works), and the owner is aware of this. So, it’s usually handed in a less than ceremonial gesture at the end of a meeting.

The second type is the “corporate creative”, characterized by a downtown/gentrified Brooklyn executive from a more creative industry than the one described above-- most likely in advertising or media/production. The guy in this category knows what’s expected of him as someone in a “Creative” industry and dresses accordingly to express this awareness; a navy blazer (sometimes with a colorful handkerchief in the front pocket) with either a white t-shirt or button-down, fitted jeans, a pair of socks that are either neon orange or covered in two-colored polka dots to indicate a sense of humor and not-taking-one’s self-too seriously sort of attitude, completed with leather boots.

The business card for this second type is a bit trickier to explain, as there are usually significant levels of variation. One common thread, however, is the name of the company, which is usually a play on words or a combination of two words that have absolutely nothing to do with each other; Salt + Swing, Caviar Monkey, Original Derivative, etc (none of these are real companies, I just made them up for the purpose of demonstrating). The logos are usually whimsical and purposefully childish or extremely minimalistic, depending on the name. The color scheme matches the philosophy behind its owner’s outfit; carrying hints of “fun”ness (perhaps a fuschia logo), with an innate sense of corporateness (everything else is in black, Helvetica or Helvetica-like font). The thickness usually varies; some cards have three layers, the middle one being fuschia to match the logo. Such cards are usually presented with a not-so-discreet sense of pride in the uniqueness of the card, typically manifested with a small side-smile, a brief pause before handing it over to elevate suspense, or in some cases, an overt statement about how interesting the card is, followed with one of the above.

The third category is the truly creative individual who realizes that a business card is a helpful tool for anyone trying to put himself out there in the commercial world, but wants to hold onto his creativity and express it via a piece of material that has to be small enough to fit inside someone else’s wallet. Typically residing somewhere along the J or F trains, these guys can be seen wearing black pants and a baggy white t-shirt with a pair of old Nikes, flannel from his grandpa’s wardrobe, with frames that were found in a vintage store and repurposed, and some simple jeans and CATS boots, or a vintage bomber from the 80s, simple pants and a white shirt. His card reflects the creative, rebellious, not-abiding-by-the-norms side of him; usually of irregular dimensions (short and wide) and/or shape (square instead of rectangular), covered with a print of the owner’s choice and perhaps an irregular placement of text (skewed to one corner of our card). The way these cards are handed over is almost always with a no-big-deal attitude, drawn from the owner’s awareness that the card will speak for itself.

The fourth category is the I-don’t-give-a-f*** about business cards card, also known as the no-card. These cards are usually carried by people who see no point in owning them and of course, who do not work for an organization that requires its team members to have and carry them. This is a truly independent soul who doesn’t give a damn about certain societal norms such as the one on having and exchanging business cards, and will do the work of the card himself. He can wear whatever the fuck he wants, and will call/email you himself if he needs something from you, so doesn’t feel the need to present you a piece of material that he knows you’re going to throw out a minute after he walks away.

Now, I know that I initially mentioned there were four categories. This week, however, I met someone who didn’t fit into any of the categories described above. His name is Julian Crouch and he is the mind behind the ideation, creation, and execution of-- for the lack of a better phrase-- a puppet show named Birdheart.

Birdheart was one of the most touching, hopeful, inspiring pieces of work I’ve seen lately, and witnessing someone so passionate and in love with a craft so niche and so specifically defined was incredibly inspiring, to say the least.

That evening, Julian was wearing jeans and a baggy shirt, his grey hair and beard groomed enough to make him look put-together, but not enough to call him “sharp”. At the end of his performance, he grabbed a stool and started taking audience questions. He was so humble, so serene, and down to earth. In response to being asked about his next plans for the piece, he said his goal was to take it to a much more challenging environment and play for people who have no source of fun or access to entertainment, and who are, perhaps, the ones who deserve and need it the most.

Being from a country that’s currently home to the largest Syrian refugee population, I immediately wanted to talk to him about bringing the piece all the way to Turkey and about having him perform in areas highly populated by refugees, as that would not only help satisfy Julian’s goal, but also serve as a remarkable source of joy in the lives of kids and parents whose main and most important task has become to stay alive.

Seeing Julian not just perform with such vigour, heart, soul, and a visibly burning flame in his heart, but also his genuine interest in bringing this phenomenal piece to an audience that would soak it in with as much passion as the dry desert soil soaks in the rain, was already enough to bring me to the verge of tears. But then, something else happened.

I approached Julian and talked about Turkey; the lost art and tradition of shadow puppetry (which he, of course, already knew about), the Syrian refugee crisis, and the possibility of bringing Birdheart there. As we were speaking, a pool of people surrounded us for a chance to congratulate him. At that moment, Julian uttered the magic phrase; “let me give you my business card…”.

He reached for his back pocket; one of the most practical, pragmatic, and unpretentious places to carry business cards. Even though I knew it wasn’t going to be something pretentious, I still couldn’t stop myself from wondering what this enormously talented, creative, and successful man’s card would look like.

It was at that point that I was handed a “card” in traditional dimensions, but made out of a frail brown paper material with just the word BIRDHEART written in all-CAPS, followed by three email addresses. No names, no logos, no phone numbers. No fancy three-tiered, demagnetizing materials. It was clear what the card’s purpose was; a means for Julian to spread the word about the show, without trying to send three thousand subliminal messages along with it. He didn’t even have a website to direct people to, and so the “card” (though “paper” would be a more appropriate term in this case) is the only physical document that links him to Birdheart.  

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I throw away 99% of the business cards I receive right after my meeting is over because I already have the email address of everyone I want and need to stay in touch with. I don’t need anyone’s statement-making stationery that’s trying too hard, in order to be reminded of them.

I couldn’t throw out Julian’s.

While emptying out my bag at home that evening, I blindly reached inside and grabbed ahold of something that felt like a piece of the paper bag from lunch. I pulled it out, only to see BIRDHEART written on it. The simplicity of it hadn’t struck me amongst the chaos of work, but it certainly did in the calm stillness of my apartment. And I immediately started crying.

That card was the most beautiful and melancholic symbol of our societal and perhaps even global, values. The man who lives and breathes his work and feels it in every cell in his body is the one who has the most modest, understated of cards, and uses it mainly to sustain his existence and that of his work, in the world.

The card says it all.

Makers, creators, and thinkers have simple cards; they tell you, at first glance, that their owner knows his work is something bigger than himself, and should therefore take up more space on paper and in the world. Most other cards are simply too intentional. Too self-aware. Too constructed. Too conceited.

The world, unfortunately, is mostly made up of the latter; the type of card that ends up costing you way too much to customize and print.

That’s precisely why it is so very special to find the few fragile, pragmatic ones that don’t make a fuss about themselves, but instead, simply… exist.